


I Don’t Yell, I Burn (When I’m Angry)

by josywbu



Series: Irondad Advent Calendar 2020 [21]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angry Tony Stark, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Gen, Gun Violence, Hurt Peter Parker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28132323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/josywbu/pseuds/josywbu
Summary: Tony is angry because Peter is hurt when the bullet was meant for him.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: Irondad Advent Calendar 2020 [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2029600
Comments: 6
Kudos: 107





	I Don’t Yell, I Burn (When I’m Angry)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Rupi Kaur's poem "when I'm angry". you should read like all her work

#  I Don’t Yell, I Burn (When I’m Angry)

Tony trudges along the never-ending hallway of the med bay wing in Stark Tower. As soon as he reaches the end of the corridor, he turns around and marches back in the opposite direction. When he does, he can smell the faint traces of his own shampoo still lingering in the air. It’s nauseating.

He spends the walk back trying not to puke.

Once there he can’t bring himself to turn around and leans against the re-enforced door with a heavy sigh in a desperate attempt to drive away the stifling dark cloud of dark emotion surrounding him. It’s futile because of course it is.

The pain is still there, distinctly sitting in his stomach and the regret is still crawling up his feet, infiltrating his nervous system and worming its way into every single cell of his body until, finally, he clenches his left fist. He tries to uncramp his hand like he usually does with little to no success but somehow, today, the cramps get worse. Instead of stopping at his wrist they crawl further until ever single phalanx and joint in his hand hurts.

He can almost deal with all of that, though, if it wasn’t for the blazing anger in his chest.

Like a wildfire originating in his heart it slowly spreads into his lungs until he chokes on the smoke and then it charges at his brain, deliberately creeping up his neck and making his veins pop out. It’s then that the flames and the fury take over his sight of vision and he desperately squeezes them shut.

He tries to swallow down the rage, pass it from his body but it’s there – an unbidden guest crashing the shell that he has tried so very desperately to keep from it.

Because Tony Stark isn’t a stranger to negative emotion and he deals with them more or less healthily. He can acknowledge and work past them when he sets his mind to it. Sometimes he succumbs to them and then, at the end of the day, he gets back up. But anger… Anger terrifies him. Anger reeks of whiskey and blood and childhood trauma.

It scares him because with anger in his veins he doesn’t trust himself.

He exhales slowly, pushes all the air from his lungs and holds his breath. When he inhales he tries to focus his senses so he doesn’t collapse under the weight of it that one emotion.

He tries to listen for the almost inaudible whirring in the security door he’s leaning against. He brushes over the cold material underneath his fingertips. He tastes the mint toothpaste on his tongue. He actively tries to concentrate on the usually soothing smell of his shampoo.

It all falls to pieces when he opens his eyes and sees the dried blood under his fingernails.

His breathing stutters, his vision turns read, everything drowns out.

“Tony. He’s up.”

* * *

_“Hands up where I can see them.”_

_“Mister Stark!”_

_He hears the rough order from behind at the same time as the desperate yell of his name reaches his consciousness. Then there’s frantic webbing and a loud cheer going through the crowd and, before Tony has turned around, a shot rings out._

_Suddenly there’s the panicked screaming of a million voices._

_A warm body that stumbles into his own._

_A warm liquid hitting his hand as he grabs for the body._

_Red. Blue. Red. A flurry of gold. More red._

_He’s being picked up by the gold and red. He holds on to the blue. Can never let go of the blue that’s slowly replaced by more red._

_They’re flying. He can’t breathe._

_He’s standing again and then the body is gone. That snaps him out of it._

_“Peter!” he yells, screams, cries out desperately. “Peter, Peter, Peter.”_

_“We’ve got him, Tony, we’ve got him.” A familiar voice, a warm voice, a trustworthy voice. “It’s going to be okay. We’ve got him. He’ll be okay.”_

* * *

“Tony?” Rhodey asks again, taking a worried step closer to him. “Peter is up. You can talk to him. He’s fine.”

He looks up eventually, and he can still see the red and still smell the blood, and it only takes him five strides to cross the hallway this time, push past his best friend and into the medical unit.

“Mister Stark!”

Peter’s entire torso is wrapped in white bandages, from his back wires originate that lead to the steadily-beating heart monitor. An i.v. line finds its way into his arm. He’s pale and a little disoriented but he’s awake and almost chipper when he sees the older man.

“I’m so glad you and Mister Banner made the new anesthetics. I didn’t feel a thing. They told me they had to use magnetic equipment to get out some of the shrapnel. I bet that looked so cool.” Through it all he has the audacity to look tiredly excited.

Tony just stood stock still in the door way until now. Rooted to the spot in horror and with rage cursing through every fiber. He doesn’t approach the bed and just stares until every other emotion in his body surrenders to his anger.

“It looked cool?” he presses out, clenching both fists by his side. He’s breathing so hard his nostrils flare up with every inhale. “Getting shrapnel out of your body before it could pierce your lungs _looked_ cool?” Oh, yes, he has had F.R.I.D.A.Y. update him on Peter’s condition.

Peter’s face doesn’t immediately close off. He frowns at his mentor, the lack of understanding slowly washing over his face. “I mean,” he starts slowly, “The whole thing wasn’t ideal but thanks to some _cool_ technology there won’t be any lasting damage.” 

Tony can’t breathe. Or, better said, he’s breathing but no air seems to find its way from his lungs to his circulation and he’s feeling lightheaded.

“And you knew that there wouldn’t be any lasting damage?” he asks, voice just barely kept under control.

“I mean,” Peter’s eyes widen, “Are you mad at me?”

“Am I –“ Tony stares, inwardly stumbles because the truth of the matter is, that he’s fucking furious. “Yes, I’m fucking angry,” he yells, a dark roar that comes from the depth of his chest, nurtured by the emotion that sits there. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Done what?” Peter gives back incredulously, “Saved your life?”

“Yes, saved my life!” Tony’s eyes flash and his arms start flailing through the air, “You shouldn’t have stepped in front of a shotgun aimed at my chest.”

“Then what was I supposed to do,” shouts Peter, the pain in his torso suddenly secondary to his own anger. However, not secondary enough to not hurt like hell when he tries to lift his arms to gesture. He winces but keeps his voice steady. “I wasn’t going to let you die.”

“Well, you should have,” Tony’s voice is hard and unrelenting. It’s cold now, as if his body had burnt too much energy too fast and now doesn’t have the stamina to keep the heat of his anger up.

“No!” Peter looks at him as if he’s lost all his marbles. “No, I shouldn’t have.” He glowers at Tony. “If he had taken the shot at you, you would have died,” he tells him matter-of-factly, though, not without completing banning the flicker of hurt from his voice. “I came from a different angle, so it didn’t hit anything vital. I have enhanced healing and, just as a principal rule, I won’t let you die if I can do anything about it,” he finishes angrily.

“It almost pierced your lungs!” he yells.

“But it didn’t!” He tries to reason. “I took a calculated risk and it worked out.”

“But what if it hadn’t?” Tony is infinitely tired because _that_ is the crux of the matter and the root of his anger. _What if it hadn’t worked out?_

Peter doesn’t meet his eyes and shrugs. Not without immediately regretting that choice when the pain shoots through his ribcage. “I would’ve never forgiven myself, if I hadn’t tried.”

For the first time since charging through the door, Tony takes a reluctant step closer to Peter’s bedside. “I’m sorry.”

His eyes fly up, a cautious frown sitting on his forehead. “What are _you_ sorry for?”

“I didn’t even ask how you were.” Tony plops down on the chair next to Peter with a heavy sigh. Gently, and a little reluctantly, he takes his hand in his and is glad when Peter melts into his touch as he’s always done and he feels him relax further into his bed. “How are you?”

Peter turns his head to the side, now that he’s not defending himself, his dopey smile returns. “I’m okay. Does that mean that you’re not mad anymore?”

“No,” Tony chuckles lightly, trying to take all harshness from his voice by softly carding through Peter’s hair. “I’m still mad and we will talk about this in detail and work out what you should and shouldn’t be doing. But,” he sighs, ”we’re not going to do that now. You should rest.”

Peter nods slowly, eyes already fluttering close trustingly and head turned comfortably into Tony’s palm. He remembers something and his eyes fly open again. “Aunt May?”

“I talked to her. She’s on her way. She’s kind of mad, too,” Tony answers in a hushed voice.

“Great,” Peter mumbles and closes his eyes again, “Tell her I need to rest, too.”

“I will, buddy. I will.” 


End file.
